Fugue
by Sueg5123
Summary: Season 1x01 AU, in which Mac returns from her time embedded with an invisible injury.
1. Chapter 1

**Fugue**

_Will and Mac and tabula rasa. Season 1x01 AU, in which Mac returns from her time embedded with an invisible injury._

"I tried to get in touch with you while you were on vacation," she began.

To grind home his disinterest, Will flipped through papers on his desk, refusing to even look up as she spoke.

"I asked my agent to negotiate a three year contract. I think that's the longest—"

"It's not a three year contract anymore," he said, lighting a cigarette. "It's a 156 week contract that gives me the option to fire you 155 times at the end of each week."

She swallowed and tried to recover. "I know you're concerned about m-my—medical situation. But you have to believe I won't let it be a f-factor. You can t-trust me to do this, Will."

He frowned, suddenly unsure of the distraction she had just introduced. _Medical_ s_ituation_? It didn't matter. "We'll wait a few months to make sure it's not a story Bill Carter can shove up my ass—we'll do it then."

"How did you get my contract changed?" She was on the verge of hyperventilating. _Something she had wanted, something that had been promised was being pulled away…_

"I gave the network back some money off my salary."

She shut her mouth, which had been hanging open. No need to ask how much money. It didn't matter, except as an abstraction. Will didn't want her here and was willing to pay to reject her at a time of his choosing for no reason other than the fact that _he wanted to_.

"I see," was what she said, quietly, rising.

As soon as she was gone, Will picked up the phone. "Charlie, Mackenzie just told me she had some kind of medical condition. I thought you told me she was just tired. Is there something else?"

"Do you remember hearing about a CNN reporter who was caught in the explosion outside the Danish embassy in Islamabad?"

"That was Mac?"

"The blast wave pushed her into a wall. TBI."

Will flinched. "The EP of my show is damaged goods? She has frigging shell shock?"

"This is _Mackenzie_ we're talking about, Will. Show some respect." Will felt the glare through the phone. "She lost parts of her memory, she has some hearing loss, sometimes she has aphasia—like everyone who's over 50." Charlie let that one register. "But she's still Mackenzie, the best EP in news. Period. Where's your compassion?"

"I am loaded with compassion. _Loaded_. And I wish her well, I really do. I just wish her well _somewhere else_, not here, not my show. Look, I'll make a donation to whatever institute studies these sorts of things—"

"When did you start thinking you could just buy your way out of uncomfortable situations, Will?" The disappointment in his voice was evident.

"Charlie—"

"She doesn't have ebola. She has gaps in her memory. An almost imperceptible stammer."

"Yeah, I know what's involved with a traumatic brain injury. _And_ anxiety attacks. _And_ depression."

"Neither of which impacts her professional performance."

"We don't know that. How am I supposed to know when she's okay and when she's talking off her head? I don't want someone in my ear if I can't trust what they're saying."

"For God's sake, Will, she's been injured, not lobotomized." Charlie exhaled heavily, suddenly tired of dealing with his truculent anchor. "She's staying, that's the end of it. She deserves a fair shake from us."

No doubt, Will had been surprised with the first day. The BP oil spill, brought to him largely through the tenacity and temerity of Mac and her team, was a ratings success, but even more than that, it felt like a return to something important. For the first time in months, years, Will had been proud of the content of the broadcast.

But he still found her blithe presence disturbing.

She stopped by his office one evening in the second week. "Charlie told me there was something personal and messy between us once. I just want to reassure you that won't b-be an issue with me. I have trouble remembering a few things—personal things, experiences and things like that—and whatever happened b-between us—well, that's one of the things I can't quite recall." She looked down. "But I wanted to let you know that I appreciate you giving me this chance and not allowing anything that may have p-passed between us b-before—"

"Memory loss is convenient. You know I told Charlie I didn't want you," he said flatly.

A beat passed. "R-right. Thanks for setting me st-straight." Her teeth locked onto her lower lip. "Like I said, I appreciate your c-confidence in me," this last offered without conviction and with unmistakable bitterness. She turned to leave.

He wanted to know for sure and this was the moment, now that a fissure had opened in her composure.

"Hey, Mac. In the B block, we've got the WikiLeaks release of those State Department messages and implementation of the Affordable Care Act. I think they're each about 90 seconds. How much time does that leave to fill?"

"Four and a half minutes. Sloan's been wanting to talk about the president's f-financial regulatory reform bill and I thought we'd let her have the time."

"Okay, that sounds good," he nodded and stood. "I've got to change now."

After she left, he sat back down at his desk and considered what he had just seen. Or, rather, _hadn't_ seen. For the first time since he'd known her, he hadn't seen Mackenzie subtract using her fingers.

"_I'm in."_

There. The admission that despite the personal ruination, the festering resentment he still felt, that Will recognized a professional interdependence with Mackenzie.

He was _in_. He had been coasting for so long. It felt good to be challenged again.

Sure, the show about Arizona SB-1070 had turned into a goat-rope, but the ones that followed were successes that built upon each other. Characterizing the Tea Party. Calling out the radical right for co-opting mainstream Republicanism. Calling out Obama for a stunning absence of leadership on gun control. Making the humane and, as it turned out, correct call during the Giffords shooting. Recognizing that the economy was the primary driver of domestic politics and focusing increasingly on economic stories.

Something exciting was happening again.

It had occurred to Will that Mac's alleged medical condition might be nothing more than a ruse to manipulate him emotionally. Put him on the defensive.

Although careful to avoid direct encounters with Mackenzie outside the control room-anchor desk relationship, Will nonetheless scrutinized her during the course of the working day, looking for evidence of crippling debilitation. He found none. Whatever had happened in Pakistan hadn't compromised her proficiency as EP one iota.

He noticed the occasional hesitation in her speech during rundown meetings; it wasn't so much a stutter as a seeming reluctance to let go of certain consonants. There was no apparent pattern to it—just a random thing, except that it was obviously more pronounced when she was stressed.

He never heard it when she was in his ear during the show.

Infrequently, she would become distant, preoccupied. When this occurred, he observed, she would quickly wind up business (if in a meeting) and give marching orders to the staff, then disappear into her office. In these moments, Will pictured that she was running for the phone and privacy of her office in order to call her shrink. He was so certain of this that he once contrived to follow her, on a thirty second delay. But when he barged into her office after a perfunctory knock, she was not on the phone. She did not look distressed. She was leaned back in her chair, facing the window but with eyes closed, music coming from speakers behind her desk.

One day Will noticed a guitar in Mac's office.

"Is that a homey decorative touch or did you take up an instrument while you were embedded?"

"It's Jim's," she said softly.

"Why is it _here_?"

"Sometimes—music helps, if things begin to get away from me."

"What, Jim plays guitar for you?"

"When he has time and the inclination. Or—I just listen to stuff I already have." She gestured to the Bose system behind her desk.

So Will looked for an opportunity with Mac. It had to be casual, not confrontational. Bringing up the subject would have to appear a natural segue. It took him two more weeks to find the right moment.

The four o'clock had just wrapped up and the staff dispatched with last minute instructions. Will lingered in the conference room while Mackenzie gathered her notes.

"Things have been going well."

"I'm pleased you think so, Will." A smile touched her lips briefly, then retreated in anticipation of the snide comment she was certain would follow.

"No, seriously. I mean that."

She looked dubious.

_Brace for impact._

"You're well?" he asked.

"What is this about, Will?"

His tactics blown to hell, he sought refuge where he could find it. "I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay, that you had what you need. The show's going well, Mac, and I'm—grateful."

That gave her pause. "You have a good staff. They'd walk through fire for you, to get the story."

"And you—"

"It's nice to be back in a newsroom."

"No, I meant personally. Is everything okay?"

She eyed him with uncertainty. "I'm getting along. No need for concern."

He stretched his hand across the table. "Do you remember how it happened?"

"I remember what they told me. No first person knowledge." She gave a wan smile. "Can't even remember what the Peabody was for."

"But the memory will be recovered eventually, though?"

"No. I'll just find something new to over-write the stuff that isn't accessible anymore." She finished the interminable stacking of papers and finally met his gaze directly.

He blinked at what he saw, grabbing her shoulders.

"Mac, are you all right? Your right eye—"

"The pupil's enlarged?"

"It's huge. Nowhere the near the size of the other one. What—"

She sighed. "It's called aniscoria. It's my little canary in the coal mine, an indication that I'm about to be at sixes and sevens—"

"I've never noticed it before—"

"No reason you would. It isn't always like that," she exhaled. "But it's a clue that I need to get to my office—"

"Wait." He was in earnest now. "I've been trying to understand this, Mac. We broke up, you come back, but you don't remember anything. Amnesia—god, it sounds like a plot from a sixties sitcom."

"It's real. I just don't know if it's _deliberate_." She paused to see how that word settled on him. "My therapist has reminded me about repression, you know. That perhaps I'm subconsciously blocking out the parts that I don't want to remember, or don't want to deal with." She looked away again. "Post traumatic amnesia is usually measured in weeks or months. Mine is years, whole blocks of time. Which makes mine not only a severe but wildly atypical case." She smiled weakly. "I really have to go now. The headache will be along in a few minutes. But if any of _this_ was genuine concern for me—then I thank you."

But what Will couldn't reconcile, even at his most charitable, was the inherent unfairness _to him_ of her losing her memory. She was the one who had hurt _him_, and _she_ got to forget all about it? _She_ escaped the consequences?

_Withheld forgiveness wasn't much of a punishment for someone who couldn't recall the transgression._

He resented her not remembering how good it had been between them, and then how awful it was to have had that ripped away.

He had always taken for granted that memory was an act of will. You memorized facts before a college test; you memorized cases before the bar exam; you memorized the defendant's previous convictions before you went for the kill at summation.

_Excising a memory also had to be an act of will_, he decided.

Will sought out Jim.

"You're her amanuensis?"

The good humor on Jim's face froze and faded. He wasn't sure if the salvo had been aimed at himself or Mac. "No. I'm a senior producer for News Night," he said, pronouncing each syllable distinctly and slowly. "What's on your mind, Will?"

"What happened to her over there?"

"I wasn't there that day."

"The others who were there—"

"She was the only one who survived the blast."

"And she was broken—"

Jim's eyes narrowed. "For a man who makes his living with his words and his affability, you can be a strangely inarticulate jerk. Mac is not broken."

Will waved his hand. "I'm sorry. I expressed myself poorly. But I am concerned about whether she can take the pressure here. You know—_since_." He paused, allowing the apology and _concern_ to sink in. "I don't want to push her too hard, Jim."

"That would be almost impossible to do. She anesthetizes herself with work."

_Ah._ _There it is._ "Anesthetizes—from what?"

"Survivor's guilt? Maybe. I don't really know." Jim exhaled loudly and crossed his arms over his chest. "There's no story here, Will. You've worked with her before, you should know her strengths. Nothing's changed. She blanked out some time and she picked up a little speech deficit."

"Why do you keep your guitar in her office?"

There was a protracted pause. "This is probably a really crappy metaphor, but music seems to let her go back to factory settings. Like when you defrag your computer sometimes, to allow the files to partition and sequence, stuff like that?" Jim squinted at the other man, to see whether he'd lost him. "It's just a little thing. I think she's come to rely on it. So maybe that makes it more important than it is."

A few weeks later, upon leaving the building for lunch, Will thought he saw Mac ahead of him on the sidewalk. He was trying to work his way forward in the crush of people surging toward the crosswalk when the light changed and the people ahead of him stopped abruptly.

Not everyone stopped.

"_Mac_—" Will lunged forward, seizing her arm as she was proceeding through the crosswalk, not heeding oncoming traffic. "_Jesus, Mackenzie_." He ripped the ear-buds from her head and she looked up with (_finally!_) alarm.

"What?—"

"Mac, you almost got yourself killed. You can't wear these things on the streets." He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation at the close call. "_Sweet Jesus_."

She looked amused and wound the cord to the ear-buds around her hand, shoving it in her purse. "Well, thanks for saving my literal life this t-time."

He pulled her back to the curb with him. "I was just going out for a bite… Join me?"

"You know you're talking to me, right? The p-probationary EP?"

"It's been six months. I think you've passed the audition."

"It would have been nice to know that—"

"Yeah—I should've said." He shuffled his feet on the pavement.

"All right. Let's have a bite or nosh or whatever." She offered a tentative smile. "I seem to be in want of a k-keeper just now, so lead on."

He took her to a small restaurant in the next block, going immediately to the rear of the place to avoid the interruptions attendant to his celebrity. They ordered and he leaned back in the booth.

"So, were you on an errand or is this just a fitness kick?"

"Just needed to—get out for a bit."

"Well, save the iPod for the park and the office. You need all your senses on these city streets." He added, "You listening to an audiobook?"

She shook her head slowly. "Just m-music."

"Let me see your playlist. Let me see what whisks Mackenzie away to another place—"

She handed him the iPod and he scrolled through artists and song titles. "Hmm. That's good, that's good, that's—_weird_." His eyebrows shot up. " Warren Zevon, really?"

"I like the song about lawyers—"

"Yeah, that one is pretty good."

His sandwich and her salad arrived and he laid the iPod on the table.

"So, when did you become such a music lover?"

She paused, weighing how she should respond to that. "Therapy, actually. After the b-blast—after I was injured, the therapist suggested m-music therapy." She gave a self-deprecating laugh and added, "Not like you're thinking, not like the Mozart effect or anything. But music is mood-altering—it involves the b-brain on every level—it even increases dopamine levels. It seemed as good a therapy as anything else and it k-keeps my head a little clearer. Than drugs, I mean. The music is just a little respite."

He nodded, unable to come up with anything to say because he was unsettled by the implication of _needing _a respite.

_Respite from what, exactly? _

"You seem to have all this under control."

Mac pushed back from the table. "Seriously?" She scanned his face for a trace of sarcasm.

"I am serious," he admitted, surprising himself, too. "The staff is trained and cohesive. Morale is high. The show's great, we've done justice to a number of important stories. Ratings are up, we're closing in on first. Charlie's happy, Reese is happy. _I'm_ happy" He wiped his hands on his napkin and tossed it on the plate. "You assign the direction, you make the decisions, you train the personnel. It's your ship, Mac, and everything is just—well, er, smooth sailing."

"I don't feel that everything is under control," she said quietly. "I've been t-trying hard. I wanted to justify Charlie's faith in me—"

"—And repudiate my lack of faith?"

A ghost of a smile came to her lips. "You've got the wounded memory, Will. I've got white noise in m-my head. Much should be taken into account b-before tallying the damages for either of us."

"Will," Don leaned into his office. "If you have a minute—"

"Sure, Don, come on in."

"No." Don remained in the doorway, hand on the glass. "Jim's not here—there's something wrong with Mac—Sloan's with her—but some of the folks in the bullpen are beginning to freak out—"

Will pushed to his feet. "Where is she?"

"Her office." Don trailed behind, matching Will's giant strides. "It doesn't seem to be bad enough to call someone outside, EMTs or anything—but, you know—" He licked his lips. "Maggie said Jim usually handles this, but he's out of the office and not picking up his phone."

Will reached Mac's office but Don stayed outside, self-appointed sentinel at the door. Mac was in her desk chair, eyes closed, hands grasping the arms of the chair so tightly that her fingertips were whitened. Sloan was perched on the edge of the desk, concern and confusion plain on her face. She rose and walked around the desk to Will and whispered, "She won't talk to me."

"What happened?"

"Joint pitch meeting this morning, News Night and Right Now. Election prep. Probably 25 people in that little conference room, very loud, very close. We were almost done—she seemed to be nervous throughout, then suddenly—" Sloan made a gesture to connote a mushroom cloud. "Very agitated. Practically ran out of the room. I followed. She was throwing things around on her desk, looking for something, very upset. But she wouldn't acknowledge me, Will."

He suddenly wasn't sure what he was doing here. He didn't know what to do. "Are there some drugs—look in her purse, look in the bathroom, see if there's some prescription anti-anxiety-something." It seemed like a good start. His eyes roved the room and lighted on the Bose system. "And see if her iPod is in the purse."

"iPod." Sloan's face registered more confusion but she began to rummage through Mac's bag. In seconds, she produced an orange prescription pill bottle and handed it to him.

Xanax. This would be the thing, he thought. Just need to find out when she last took one and how to coax her into another.

Sloan looked up. "No iPod."

_Shit_.

He pushed Sloan toward the door. "Keep trying to reach Jim."

He went to her bathroom and filled a glass with water and set it on the desk, next to the bottle of Xanax. "Mac?" He leaned over her, noticing a tremble in her lips. "Mac? We have a show tonight—we need you here. _Mac_—"

Sloan had it right. Mac's wasn't so much an _inability_ to respond as a seeming _decision_ not to. Mac wasn't unconscious (_the way she clutched the chair_); she wasn't intoxicated with medication; this didn't seem to be a seizure. This seemed like self-protection, a reflexive way of hunkering down when the shells were falling around you.

A kind of momentary self-exile.

He looked around again, trying to think of something else he could do. He saw Jim's guitar. It was a goofy idea, but he reached for it nonetheless. It was something to do, and the situation begged that _something be done_. He strummed once, trying to get a feel for the tuning. He adjusted the G and B strings. Still not perfect, but—

He started with a few light, jazzy chords. In a minor key. Something contemplative but not intimidating; upbeat but not frenetic. Wes Montgomery, Joe Pass. This style really called for a different type of guitar, a big hollow-body electric, but Will tried to improvise something on the acoustic.

In only ten minutes he felt he had exhausted his limited jazz vocabulary. He riffed on the barre chords for as long as he could sustain it; this wasn't the sort of music he normally played, and he wasn't sure where to take it next.

Looking over to the desk, he noticed Mackenzie staring at him, head canted and the knuckles of one hand pressed to her lips.

He straightened from his crouch over the guitar. "How do you feel?"

"Headache."

"When was the last time you—" he inclined his head, indicating the prescription bottle on her desk.

"You don't have to do this, Will."

"Jim was out of the office and we thought—"

"We?"

He swung the guitar down so that it rested on the floor. "Well—_this_, this was me. I thought it might—help."

"Mac, you okay?" Jim materialized in the doorway, one hand on his waist and the other ruffling his hair. "I had a dental appointment and I turned my phone off…"

Will walked past Jim, thrusting the neck of the guitar into his hands. "Strings need changing."

He had fetishized his hurt, cherished his anger. For years he had wrapped it around himself like a comforting mantle. It would be hard to simply let it go.

He _didn't want_ to just let it go.

But it was getting harder to hold onto it.

Understanding was dangerous. It might lead to sympathy. It might lead to empathy.

It might lead to forgiveness.

She never asked him to feel sorry for her. So, of course, that made it all the more possible.

When you got right down to it, what Mac was really missing was _him_.

A memory of _them_, together.

The next day, Will centered the wrapped package on her desk and dithered about where to place the card before she returned.

_Too late._

"Will," she said, swinging into the door. "Did you need something?" Then, looking from him to the desk and back to him, she added, "What's this?"

"Something—" he shrugged, his stealth blown. "Something I thought you might like."

She picked it up and ran her fingers along the edges. "A book? Probably by Proust?" She had made a joke and checked his face to see if he got it. She was smiling, a pleased, genuine smile, not one of the ones she sometimes forced in front of him.

"Open it."

She tore the paper. "A new iPod."

"I think I'm the reason your other one got lost."

"It's very thoughtful of you, Will. Thank you."

"I loaded some music to it already, stuff I thought you might like—"

"I'm sure it will be fine."

"—But I have a large library on iTunes, you know, so maybe, if you wanted, you could come over to my place and we could select some stuff, make you a few playlists—"

"Are you asking me to your place?" She felt suddenly off balance.

"I—there's a card, too," he said, handing it to her. It wasn't a Hallmark card, just a piece of ivory-colored card stock with loopy blue scrawls. He swallowed. "Look, I get that this comes as a surprise. I get this isn't something you thought you'd hear from me. I haven't given you any reason—" he stopped, looked down and shook his head. "We used to be good together, Mac. I'd like to try to get that back."

She looked up from the card. "You signed it, _Billy_."

"Yeah. You used to—I'd like it if you would—"

"Okay." She nodded and tried it out. "_Billy_."


	2. Chapter 2 - The Unresolved Seventh

**The Unresolved Seventh**

**A/N**: This is more of a sequel than a real chapter 2 to _Fugue,_ because so many people seemed to want a bit more. Still very AU. All rights to characters belong to Aaron Sorkin and HBO.

_This was the dissonant note. This was what in music is called the unresolved seventh, as when the dominant chord does not resolve logically downward to the next step of the scale. Even the musically untrained ear notices the dissonance, the absence of resolution._

_Tuesday_

"Billy—_no_." She looked so sad.

"You're saying no?"

"I don't want to t-tie you to this if something happens."

"That's sort of the point of marriage, isn't it?" he said. "To be tied to someone—in sickness and in health?" He pushed the ring a little closer. "I don't get it. It's exactly why you need to say yes."

But Mackenzie was determined not to waver on this point. "I'm just asking to d-defer it. Let's wait until after—"

_After_. _After the surgery_, she meant.

"I love you. Don't doubt that, Billy."

He definitely looked as though he did.

"Billy—" she touched his face. "I love you. And once this is behind us, if you still want to—"

"Am I allowed to come to the hospital?" he asked shortly and with a tinge of bitterness. "Or were you thinking you'd just creep off alone to some elephant graveyard?"

She was running again, but this time he wasn't the reason.

This time, he was just collateral damage.

She looked askance, then down in defeat. "I'm sorry. I'm s-so sorry, Billy."

oooo

_Two weeks earlier…_

There had been symptoms, minor at first but escalating. An increasing severity of the headaches, when it felt like a brain freeze that went on for hours.

But what had really convinced her of the necessity was the seizure in Control during the show one night, an event that mortified her and terrified the staff.

She had gone quickly and docilely to the doctor following the seizure. Will had gone with her, determined to learn what she had tried to underplay. He was alarmed beyond his capacity to speak it. They had been seeing each other again for about six months and it was better than it had ever been. She was still bright and funny and beautiful, and he was as completely gone about her as before. Occasionally, he would glimpse a remoteness in her, a seeming shadow that he attributed to sadness, _even unremembered sadness_, from her time embedded.

Of course, her memory was still MIA. Or perhaps that was _KIA_, since it was impossible to be recovered. What she had instead of memory was a halting way with consonants, increasingly severe headaches, and now a tremor in the fingers of her right hand.

It wasn't an even trade, but perhaps it had been a fair one. A merciful one, anyway.

Tests. More tests. Preliminary diagnosis. Referral. A refined diagnosis. Opinions. Options. Recommendations. Another referral.

Will drank coffee and read emails on his phone during the latest CT scan and MRI. When the battery of tests was finished, he took her to lunch, and then they returned in the afternoon, to speak with the neurologist.

Dr. Samson bade them be seated before forcing a tentative smile.

"I know this is an anxious time, so let me begin by encouraging you to stop me at any time and ask questions." He moved the computer mouse and brought an image to the screen on his desk, rolling the cursor over a gray area. "This is the area of concern. It appears to be a small lesion, probably connected to your head injury. As I'm sure your doctor told you at the time of the original injury, it is always preferable to take a wait-and-see approach to brain injuries. Sometimes problems don't manifest themselves until years later."

"Is that the case here?" Will asked.

"I'm afraid so." The doctor turned to look at Mac, who looked attentive but emotionally blank. "The seizure you experienced last week indicates something has changed. Your intracranial pressure is elevated. My experience tells me this won't simply go away on its own, but that you will continue to have these episodes, on a greater or lesser scale. Perhaps additional symptoms as well."

Her fingers tightened on Will's hand.

Will swallowed. "How do we—" he began.

"Surgery is an option. It's probably your best option for long term relief of the symptoms." He gestured with his hands and gave a wan smile. "I'm a surgeon, so of course I advocate for surgery. It poses significant risks, however, so I also want you to talk to someone about alternatives. I'll give you some names." He looked up guardedly. "Your insurance—"

"No problem there," Will dismissed, thinking that such matters shouldn't have to be considered right now.

Will's terse response registered with the doctor. "Of course," he nodded. "There aren't many nonsurgical protocols. Radiation, but that brings a host of other issues. There are some experimental medications, but the efficacy is spotty—they work with some patients, not with others. They also tend to be incredibly expensive and not typically covered by insurers." He scribbled names and phone numbers on a prescription pad and slid the sheet across the desk. "Talk to either of these doctors. They're at the forefront of new nonsurgical approaches."

"And if we opt for surgery?"

Dr. Samson addressed his response to Mac, who had finally posed a question of her own. "Don't delay. Sooner is better. The success rate, and by that I mean both relief from the symptoms and curtailment of episodes such as you've had, is quite good. The problem, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you, is that the surgeon may have to go through normal brain tissue in order to reach the lesion. So there's always the risk of injuring otherwise healthy tissue—"

"—M-making things worse," she finished.

"It's possible."

"A calculated risk." Mackenzie looked to Will then back to the doctor. 

Will picked up the discussion again once they were in the cab and headed back to work.

"Mac, you're being reckless." _Yet_ a_gain_. "Just talk to another doctor. It doesn't hurt to talk. Find out. Then make your decision."

"I've m-made it."

"It's dangerous. You need to consider the consequences—"

"Of w-winding up worse?" she squeezed her eyes closed and exhaled heavily. "You d-don't understand, Will. There is something inside here—" she placed her fingers on either side of her forehead, "and I have to get it out."

His lips tightly compressed, he looked out the window. "I don't want to lose you."

"Billy," she smiled and pushed her head against his shoulder. "You heard Dr. Samson say I was an excellent c-candidate—good prognosis—"

"I also heard him say, '_significant risks_,'" Will grumbled in return.

She pulled back, realization dawning. "You're afraid I'll f-forget you again. That's it, isn't it?"

"I'm more concerned about death, paralysis, and cognitive impairment, in that order," he returned. "Of course, I want you to remember me. And all the people you know and work with. _News_ _Night_. Reese Lansing. The Aryan overlord who sells the bagels you like." He took a deep breath. "What I want is _Mackenzie Uninterrupted_. I want you whole, I want you safe, I want you happy, I want this episode in our rear view mirror as quickly as possible." He paused again. "Throw me a bone here, will you?"

She laughed at his recitation and pressed back into his arms. "We're going to be f-fine, Billy. I even promise to work on remembering Reese and the d-dark lord of the bagels."

_ But there had been another seizure the following day at her apartment. _Sloan had redirected her unanswered calls to the doorman who found Mac on the kitchen floor. She was conscious again by the time EMTs arrived, but the decision was now not only obvious but urgent.

_oooo_

_Same Tuesday_

"I thought you'd be out celebrating—" Charlie began, entering Will's office. He stopped when he saw the other man's expression. Then his eyes drifted to the open velvet box in front of Will, a perfectly ostentatious ring still in residence. "What happened?"

"She said no."

"_She said no_?" The eyebrows shot up. This wasn't possible. "Why would she say no? To that rock? To _you_, after all this time? What the fuck?"

Will was glowering by the time Charlie paused. "She said no. That's it." He snapped the lid closed and dropped the box into his top right drawer.

Charlie sagged against the wall. "I'll be damned. I thought that whatever it was between you two could be exhumed and fixed. I thought it was just a matter of putting you together again. I never thought—that she'd say no." He was quiet for a bit. "I'm so sorry, son."

"She's worried about the surgery. Doesn't want—" Will's voice hardened. "She wants to do this all alone, she doesn't want entanglements. Reckless. She's always been fucking fearless."

"She's thinking of you—"

"She doesn't let me in, Charlie. Not since she came back. She has layers and facades and you think you're getting to the real Mackenzie but there's someone else there."

oooo

Mac went to her office from the studio. It was still hers for the night, even though a piece of paper reading _James Harper, Executive Producer_ was now taped over the plaque with her name outside the door. He would be carrying the show beginning tonight. She had petitioned Charlie for the promotion, and he had acquiesced, calling it _provisional_, until her return from medical convalescence. She didn't argue with him, but she knew full well it might be a permanent assignment.

After all, Jim was more than capable. He'd understudied her for three years in the field, one year here. The only concern would be whether he could corral and harness Will to the correct form of _News Night_.

She wasn't sure she would be coming back to _News Night_ again. Even if things went well tomorrow, she was unsure of Will's reaction. Would he allow her back?

"Will asked you to marry him and you told him _no_?" Jim stood in the door, hands on his hips, shaking his head in anger. "I mean, what the heck, Mac?"

"How did you—?"

"He didn't tell me, if that's what you mean." Jim ripped the headset off his head and tossed it on the desk. "But the next time someone proposes to you in the studio, remind them to kill the shotgun mic on camera one."

She closed her eyes. "P-please tell me all of Control didn't—"

"Can't tell you that. But I wanted to be the first one in here, before Sloan gets it from Kendra or Tamara and charges in." He folded his arms and tried to maintain his glare, but anger was a difficult pose for him. Especially when the target was Mac.

"Mac, you can't turn people on and off like light switches. You can't want someone to love you and then hold them at arm's length."

"You're giving advice to the l-lovelorn now?"

"I'm giving advice to someone I respect who's just screwed up pretty badly. Will's erased all the reservations I initially held about him. He _wants_ to go through this with you. I know you love him—jeeze, we all heard it _ad nauseum_ in five different time zones."

"But there's a chance something could go wrong. I d-don't want to—"

"Yeah, yeah." He waved his hand impatiently. "I heard your rationale, remember? And it just doesn't fly. He didn't buy it. I don't buy it." He considered and added, "You may have convinced Joey, but I think that's just because he's younger and more naïve."

She missed the attempt at humor. Her mind was racing. She had believed she was doing the right thing. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Will or do something irreversible to their new relationship. But she didn't want him handcuffed to her by legality—by honor—by misguided loyalty—if there were complications...

_Was she wrong?_

"Mac, you've got twelve hours before you go to the hospital so this has to be fixed tonight. If you want me to, I'll help."

oooo

Will was uncharacteristically subdued during the B block interview with House Majority Leader Eric Cantor about the ramifications of the Stock Legislation on House members. He stumbled through the C block segment updating the Syrian situation, once losing his train of thought entirely and having to rely on the 'prompter. Despite usually regarding the teleprompter as a crutch, he was relieved that it was available tonight. As long as he could read, he could limp through the broadcast.

Only 30 seconds in F block and the wrap-up remained.

In Control, Herb counted down off-mic and turned to Jim. "And—D.C. has it." _Capitol Report with Terry Smith_ began rolling on the bottom left monitor.

"Okay." Jim toggled his mic. "Will, we've lost the 'prompter." He nodded at Joey to confirm he'd stopped it.

_Shit_. Will shuffled the papers in front of him.

"You'll have to vamp."

"Copy." Annoyance and frustration were plain in Will's voice. _First night Mac's gone and there's already a major fuck up._

"Will, I've been thinking about what you said to me earlier—"

Simultaneously on three of the monitors in Control, Will's eyes widened at the sound of Mac's voice in his ear.

"Mac? What the fuck is going on?"

"Back in fifteen—" Herb prompted, maintaining the fiction of live air.

"Ready, Joey?" Jim asked. Wordsworth on the 'prompter—Will was gonna have a fit. At the nod he got in response, he added, "Okay, let's roll it."

The teleprompter began scrolling again, fixing Will with the words on it.

For thou art with me here upon the banks

Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,

My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch

The language of my former heart, and read

My former pleasures in the shooting lights

Of thy wild eyes.

Wild eyes accurately summed up Will's reaction.

"Jim—Mac—_whoever's in there_—what the—"

Grinning, Herb counted down to a totally fictitious return from break. "Ten, nine—"

"Yes. I'm saying _yes_."

Mac handed her headset to Jim. "I really have to get in there now—"

Jim gave her a quick hug. "I killed the shotgun mic. Good luck with the brain transplant tomorrow. I'll be around with macramé and Twizzlers around noon," he yelled after her.

She passed Sloan in the corridor outside Control, pausing to return the latter's fist bump, before continuing into the studio, past the cameras, to the desk, where Will had started to rise, beginning to suspect he was being made the butt of an elaborate joke. She grabbed his hand and dragged him away from the cameras, to a dark corner opposite.

She checked the toggle on his mic pack, to make sure it was off.

"Seriously?" he started.

"Seriously," she affirmed. "I'm saying _yes_."

oooo

_Two days later_

Gary Cooper walked into Room 435 as directed by the nurse's station. The arm with the bouquet dropped to his side. "Who bought the florist's shop?"

Flowers lined the ledge under the window. Carnations lodged on the side table, sprays of daisies and peonies and irises brightened the floor space between two chairs of fixed girth and improbable Naugahyde antecedents.

Will was in one of the chairs, feet propped upon the end of the hospital bed. His whole posture suggested permanence to his presence. Maggie and Tess were supporting the walls on either side of the air conditioning unit under the window, and Sloan lounged in the other chair, making pronouncements from her Blackberry.

"Piers Morgan. Ann Curry. Jon Stewart. Diane Sawyer. Matt Lauer." She bolted upright. "You ever see him without a shirt on?"

From the bed Mac laughed. "I haven't."

"Not bad," Sloan adjudged.

"Wait a minute," Will began. "Matt Lauer sent a shirtless photo with a message for Mac?"

"No. I was on a different web site by then." Sloan looked up hopefully. "But still, you know. Not bad."

Tess took Gary's flowers and positioned them near a particularly grandiose spray of flowers with a card identifying it as from the Lansings.

He approached the bed. "Okay to kiss hello?"

Mac returned a small smile. "Not contagious. Unless you want scary bed hair."

Gary gave a quick buss to her cheek. "I'll pass on the hair thing." He rubbed his own. "So—? I mean, I expected brain surgery to look a little more complicated."

"It is, from the other perspective." Mac pushed back a curtain of hair and pointed to the large square of gauze taped to her scalp.

"She's just pleading for sympathy," Will snarked. "As soon as I can wean her off the Jello, we are out of here."

"Any serious answers around here today?" Gary asked.

"The lesion was what they call focal—confined to a specific location—and extra axial, which means within the skull but outside the brain." Maggie was repeating this from rote now, having given the same report to Charlie, to Elliot, to Reese's representative, and to someone she mistook for ACN's HR department. [It was actually just a former _Newsweek_ journalist with a blog.] "She passed the preliminary neurological tests and seems to be on the glide slope to full recovery."

"Hey, Mac, glad to hear that. Be glad to get you back—do we know how long—?"

"No rushing the patient," Will reproved from his reclined position, fingers still poised over his Blackberry. "If you and Jim can't handle Jane, just say so."

"Well, Jane's a—she's a goddam prima donna. And Jim's on his way up right now, so I'll let him give you the details." Gary went back and squeezed Mac's hand, the one without an IV. "Just wanted to check in and say hello." He looked up at Maggie and Tess, twin seraphs on the air conditioning unit. "Keep us posted."

A few minutes later, Jim strolled in. "I brought more Twizzlers."

"I don't get it—what's up with the Twizzlers?" Sloan frowned.

"An embed joke," Mac said. "If someone wanted a sweet, it had to be something that wouldn't melt. Chocolate was out. Then, somehow, this disgusting red ropey stuff evolved into shorthand for 'get well soon.'"

"Must not be too disgusting. I notice the supply has been depleted," Jim said.

"That's more of a commentary on the economics of hungry staffers visiting, not an endorsement for Twizzlers," Will said.

"Feeling better today?" Jim asked.

"Just tired," Mac allowed. "They poked and prodded me every two hours last night. CT scan in the wee hours of the morning—"

"There was no waiting," Will noted.

"Well, you look good."

She smiled in gratitude for the fib. "You brought your guitar?"

"I thought Will might find a use for it this afternoon, when I have to herd everyone back to work." He eyed Tess and Maggie; Sloan returned a defiant glare. "Yes, Jane Barrow is our cross to bear. For a little while."

Will took the instrument and strummed once. "In tune. For a change."

"Well, I'm sure there's some three chord song that won't tax your abilities," Jim shot back with a grin. "How about '_Moondance_.'"

"The Van Morrison song? That's a four chord song."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

Jim thought a moment. "Yeah, you're right. Forgot the E major seventh."

"Okay, one song, then I'm sending all of you on your way."


End file.
